


Un-Glamourous

by medusasmirror



Category: Glamourist Histories Series - Mary Robinette Kowal
Genre: F/M, Mount Holyoke College, emily dickinson - Freeform, writing unrelated work in someone else's world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusasmirror/pseuds/medusasmirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth Harrison is a student at Mount Holyoke College. She is a good woman, and a good student, but she cannot reconcile herself to the idea that glamour is a sin. She struggles against the Puritanical teachings of her society, while also looking for her place in the world as a woman and as a glamourist.<br/>**Edited! Now with fewer brackets!**</p>
            </blockquote>





	Un-Glamourous

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on Mary Robinette Kowal's Glamourist Histories, but takes place in the United States, which is, according to comments from Mary, generally opposed to the use of glamour. None of Mary's characters appear on the page directly. It does mention things from the final book, Of Noble Family, although not direct plot spoilers.

“Glamour feeds into the sin of vanity and is therefore vanity itself.”  
Elizabeth slouched at her desk as the lecture ground on and on. Why was it so terrible to work glamour? The English used glamour. The Africans used glamour. The Ottomans, and even the natives used glamour. But the Americans eschewed it as being ungodly. How could a talent that was given by the Almighty be ungodly? She stifled her rebellious thoughts and turned her attention back to her school mistress. The classroom was stiflingly hot in the September afternoon. The rustle of shifting students underlay Miss Malone’s lecture, lulling the unsuspecting toward sleep.  
Later, in the common room Elizabeth struck up a conversation with Mary Bently. Like their esteemed founder, Mary Lyon, Mary Bently was a proponent of education for women. However, Miss Bently carried her beliefs much further. Her goal was the education and emancipation of all women, regardless of color or creed. Miss Bently was the first abolitionist that Elizabeth had ever encountered and the two young women had much to discuss.  
Elizabeth had never given too much consideration to the question of slavery. Her own family was of modest means, and therefore had no need to employ the slaves that worked the large cotton plantations in the south. She had, she feared, paid very little mind to Miss Bently’s abolitionist speeches until the word “glamour” had caught her ear one night. Elizabeth was attuned to any mention of her favorite, though forbidden passion  
Miss Bently had been speaking on the evils of cold mongering. The habit in the South was to take slaves who had been injured in the field and train them as cold mongers. This was the most dangerous of the glamours and often killed its practitioners within a very few years. Miss Bently argued passionately that if glamour was a sin, as it was considered here in the States, then how much more egregious was it to force that sin on people who would never have sinned if left to their own devices? The sin lay, not with the slaves themselves, who had no power to chose their own fate, but with the slave owners, who forced them into it.  
“I know your views Miss Bently, but I cannot agree with their foundation. I cannot bring myself to regard the practice of glamour as a sin,” Elizabeth told her.  
“You do have the most peculiar views, Miss Harrison,” Miss Bently laughed. “I suppose it comes from your uncle being in the Philosophical Society of Glamourists. Is he really quite scandalous?” Miss Bently leaned in for a good gossip.  
“He is a great trial to my Mother,” Elizabeth admitted. “In part because he insists on sending me copies of monographs and journals on the field. He has always encouraged my interest in glamour, despite the fact that I could not join his society.”  
“You tread on dangerous ground,” Miss Bently warned her friend. “You are too open in your interest in glamour.”  
“As you are with your abolitionist tendencies. You know our founder does not approve of such radical movements,” Elizabeth replied.  
“I cannot understand how a woman as progressive as Miss Lyon can be so blind to the plight of women who are so in need of champion!” Miss Bently cried, her voice rising to an immoderate pitch. Other young women in the common room turned to look at them.  
Elizabeth placed a hand on her friend’s arm. “Miss Bently, Mary, please. You must control yourself. You have already received five demerits this term for passing out pamphlets. If you run afoul of the mistresses again you might be dismissed and sent home.”  
Miss Bently subsided back onto her cushion. “I apologize, Elizabeth. You are, of course, correct. Papa would never recover from the scandal if I was sent down like a naughty schoolboy. Although, I do not give two figs for my reputation at home. I shall become a missionary and go to Africa to educate the women there, as it seems I can do very little to change people here at home.”  
“Africa?” Elizabeth breathed, thinking of one of her most treasured gifts from her Uncle Alexander, a copy of A Comparative Study of the Glamour Taught in Europe and Africa, With a Particular Concentration of the Ebo and Assanti Peoples by Jane, Lady Vincent and a Mrs. Nkiruka Chinwe. It was one of the only scholarly works on glamour Elizabeth knew of that had been written by a woman. And it touched on the African teachings, and now Elizabeth was planning to go to Africa. It was too much.  
“Oh, you will, I beg your pardon for imposing so on you, but you will write to me? When you go, I mean. You will write and tell me everything you see and learn? There are so many new things, new techniques in Africa…” Elizabeth trailed off, looking at Mary’s face.  
“Of course I will write to you, you goose,” her friend said. “Once I go, I mean. I can hardly write to you about Africa from across the hall.” The two girls shared a smile.  
“Devotions, ladies,” the dorm mistress called from the door. The ten or so ladies stood and made their way to their individual dorm rooms.  
“Good evening, Emily,” Elizabeth said, as she stepped into her own room.  
“Good evening, Elizabeth,” Emily replied, solemnly. Emily did everything solemnly. She was a frail girl and Elizabeth thought she was still homesick three months into her time at the seminary. Though home for Emily was a mere ten miles away in Amherst, the girls were not permitted to leave the grounds at a whim.  
The two young women stepped into their closets as the bell for devotions began to ring. Elizabeth sometimes doubted that Emily used the time to contemplate the divine, but as she was also violating the rules, she made no inquiries into her roommate’s habits. Emily, she thought, was like a little bird; tiny, self -contained, and fragile.  
Once the door closed behind her Elizabeth relaxed into herself. These few stolen moments were the only opportunities she had to most truly be herself. Feeling slightly daring, Elizabeth removed her fashionable gown, so that she would have full range of motion. Laying the dress aside, she took a deep breath and reached into the ether to pull out a fold of glamour.  
When she stopped, breath coming in quick gasps from the exertion, the closet looked like a forest glade. Elizabeth sighed. The trees were very much of a muchness without the variation found in a true forest and she lacked the skill to make the leaves move in a breeze, but the overall effect of the sunlight was pleasing. She stood in the center of her newly created glade and let the illusion of sunlight dapple across her face upturned face.  
She was able to enjoy her creation for twenty more minutes before the bells for bedtime began to ring. Sighing, Elizabeth pulled down all her carefully placed folds and let them slip back into the ether. She did not dare leave any telltale hint of a tree, or shadow of a leaf.  
If I had been born a boy, she thought, I could join Uncle Alexander in the Philosophical Society and then I wouldn’t need to tear down my glamour every day. But she had not been born a boy, she reminded herself. And there was no sense railing against her fate. She was what she was. And she was about to be late to bed.

At Christmas there was a dance with some of the young men from Andover Seminary School coming in to partner the Mount Holyoke girls. The cold weather gave everyone rosy cheeks and bright, sparkling eyes. Elizabeth frowned a little at the bare walls, fingers itching to reach into the ether and pull out some folds. A swath of greenery just there over the windows and a spray of evergreens and oranges above the mantle would cheer everything up. Although, the ladies gowns were lovely against the dark paneling. Chaperones milled about the room, keeping an eye on the interactions between the young men and women. They also served to perform introductions as the students could not be expected to be previously acquainted. Elizabeth was startled when one of said chaperones came toward her, trailing a very weedy looking young man.  
“Miss Harrison, may I introduce you to Mr. Howard Markham. He is a student at Andover Seminary. Mr. Markham, Miss Harrison.” The chaperone was the peppery philosophy teacher, Miss Stein and it was strange to hear her dry voice introducing a young man rather than extolling the virtues of the Greek philosophers. Suppressing a smile at the incongruity, Elizabeth made her curtsy to Mr. Markham. He bowed, very correctly, back to her.  
“How do you do, Mr. Markham?” she asked, appraising him through her lashes. She had danced often enough at the various parties here at the school, but never before had a young man specifically requested an introduction.  
“I do very well, Miss Harrison,” he replied, leaning toward her a bit. “Would you care to take a turn about the room before the next dance?”  
Elizabeth’s eyes flew back to his face. “I would be delighted, Mr. Markham,” she said and placed her hand on his offered arm.  
They strolled slowly around the periphery of the room, weaving in and out of the clusters of chatting students. Although he topped her own height by at least a head Mr. Markham seemed mindful of his steps and she had no difficulty keeping pace with him. Elizabeth’s gloves looked very white against the dark wool of his coat. She marveled a bit at how small her hands seemed to be in comparison to his sleeve.  
“You are a student at Andover, I believe Miss Stein said?” Elizabeth asked once they had completed a quarter turn around the periphery of the room.  
“Yes. I hope to leave for a posting in June of next year,” he said.  
“And do you know where you may be sent?”  
“No, we can never be sure about our assignments until they are actually made, but I have requested a posting in India or some other Southeast Asian mission. I feel very strongly called to that area of the world.” He looked earnestly down at her, as though willing her to understand how a man in Massachusetts could know that his place was all the way on the other side of the globe.  
“And what draws you to India?” Elizabeth asked him, her heart speeding up a bit. How marvelous that a young man she might dance with tonight could be in India in another six months.  
“I have an uncle,” he said, ducking his head slightly. “He is a merchant seaman and he travels all over the globe. He has always made it a practice of his to send long letters and little presents home to all his nieces and nephews. Those letters stirred something inside me. His description of the poor conditions that so many people are living in pricked my heart. I must believe that there is some reason I was so touched by those letters, that there is some difference I can make in those lives I have read about. Does that sound foolish?” he asked her, color rising to his cheeks.  
“Not in the least,” Elizabeth exclaimed, stung by the differences in their desires. And yet, he wanted to change the fate of multitudes while she simply wished to change her own.  
“I am glad you think so,” he said gravely. “The next dance is beginning, may I have the honor?”  
Elizabeth danced twice with Mr. Markham and introduced him to Miss Bently and to her roommate, Emily. He brought them all punch and even danced with Mary. Emily did not care for dancing and perched, wren-like, on the edge of a chair listening to them talk.  
“He seems a very gentlemanly young man,” she observed as she and Elizabeth watched Mary and Mr. Markham dance.  
“Yes, he does seems so,” Elizabeth replied. She Did not quite know why Mr. Markham has sought her out, even after their walk and their two dances. He was a puzzle, she mused.

After Christmas the winter dragged on cold, and dark. Elizabeth’s only refuge was found in her closet during the mandatory private devotional time. Twice a day she closed herself in and spun, twisted, and knotted glamour turning the tiny room into anything her imagination could design. She faithfully read the materials sent by her Uncle Alexander and practiced the techniques described therein. She tried to create the sphere obscurcie designed by Lord Vincent, but had no one to tell her if it worked or not.  
She did not dare confide in anyone, not even Mary or Emily. If she ever did get caught it would be better if they had no knowledge of her disobedience. Emily also troubled her.  
“Are you well?” she asked the smaller woman as they broke ice in the basins so that they might clean their faces. Emily’s face was pale with hectic looking red circles in her cheeks.  
“I am well,” Emily assured her. “It is only that the weather is so cold lately.”  
Elizabeth felt no confidence in her roommate’s words, but forbore to press where she was obviously not wanted. She did make a point of watching what Emily took at meals and was disheartened to see that it was so little.

February brought sad tidings for Elizabeth, but very happy ones for her friend. Mary had come of age to receive a small inheritance from her grandfather. She now had the independence to pursue her dreams of missionary work.  
“I shall miss you fiercely,” Elizabeth whispered as she watched her friend pack.  
“You will be fine, goose. And I shall write to you faithfully, just as I promised. And yes,” Mary held up a hand to fend her off. “I will find out what I can about glamour where I go, but you must understand, Elizabeth, it will not be my primary concern.”  
“No, of course not. You must do your work. I do understand,” Elizabeth stammered, unsure of how to articulate how grateful she was that Mary thought of her at all or how strongly she would miss her friend.  
“There now,” Mary said, embracing her. “I shall go to Africa and you shall stay here and marry someone in that Philosophical Society you are so enamored of.” Elizabeth blushed.  
“I haven’t even been introduced to anyone in the Society excepting my Uncle Alex and I trust that you do not intend that I am to marry him,” she said tartly.  
“I declare, I do not see why he has not yet put you in the way to meet one or two eligible young men from the Society,” Mary said, skipping away from Elizabeth’s halfhearted swat.  
“I’m sure I have no idea if Uncle Alex knows any eligible young men or not,” Elizabeth said piously.  
“But you should like to,” Mary said, amusement making her eyes dance.  
“I shall never marry anyone,” Elizabeth declared. “All the young men here believe that glamour is a sin and I do not believe that I can bear to live the rest of my life without glamour. I shall simply sit on the shelf until Mama has given up hope and then I shall come join you in Africa. We can be two spinster missionaries together, doing good works, and teaching girls how to sew a seam and do mathematics.”  
“That sounds splendid. I shall look for you in five years. You should be quite dried up by then.” The two collapsed into giggles, falling on the narrow bed amidst gowns, tissue paper, and all the other detritus of packing.

March brought another unwelcome change to Elizabeth’s ordered existence. Emily was leaving Mount Holyoke and returning home immediately.  
“I am sorry to leave you,” she said in her small voice. “My brother is coming today in the cart and I do not think I will come back. This seminary is a quiet place, but I cannot settle. I think I am meant to stay at home.”  
“Well, I wish you all the best,” Elizabeth told her, carefully embracing the thin girl. “Shall I help you pack?”  
“Thank you, no. I did not bring so very much and I shall be able to manage quite nicely on my own. Austin will be here before dinner, so I will not see you again. Be well,” and then the little bird turned away to start laying gowns and books in her trunk. Elizabeth for class and Emily was gone when she returned.  
With no roommate Elizabeth slipped into dangerous habits with her glamour. She stayed in the closet making more and more complicated glamurals and experimenting with the various techniques outlined in the material from her Uncle.  
The school held another social for the Andover students and Mr. Markham danced with her once again. He was not, she thought, so much weedy as lean. His face was really quite dear, she mused as they circled in a [dance].  
“How do your studies go, Mr. Markham?” she asked as the figures of the dance brought them close enough for conversation.  
“They progress well, Miss Harrison. As, I hope, do yours?” He gazed at her face in the most disconcerting manner, she thought.  
“They do, sir. I thank you. Have you any news about your posting. It is coming closer to your departure, is it not?” she asked.  
“It is still my most fervent hope to leave sometime in June, although there are certain requirements I must still fulfill before I may be sent out.”  
Enough of the girls from Mount Holyoke had become missionary wives that she knew he was delicately hinting at this topic. It was the entire reason for these socials, after all. The young men from Andover were required to find wives before they might take up a foreign post.  
“I wish every luck in your endeavor, Mr. Markham,” she said, eyes downcast.  
“I am most gratified to hear that, Miss Harrison,” he told her, his voice slightly rough.  
“Please, allow me to get you some refreshment,” he said, constrained by the laws of gentlemanly behavior to leave her to her thoughts for a moment.  
Elizabeth fanned herself. Was it possible that Mr. Markham had a particular regard for her? The thought discomfited her somehow. When he returned with a cup of punch she thanked him, but declined a second dance.  
“A touch of the headache,” she fibbed. I think it would be best if I were to excuse myself. I thank you for the dance,” she said, curtsying.

The next morning during her glamour practice Elizabeth overreached herself. She had created a replica of the acropolis, sketching first the ruins and then, the buildings as they might have been in antiquity. She kept adding detail long past the point where her breath became short. She felt sweat prickling under her corset, but recklessly drew out another fold of glamour and tried to tie it into the image of a Roman senator. She knew she had overreached when black spots began to dance in the edges of her eyes. She had just enough energy left to release the knots and let her acropolis fade away before she passed out. 

 

“Have you been feeling ill recently, Miss Harrison?”   
The words made no sense. Ill? Why would someone be asking if she was ill? Elizabeth blinked her eyes, trying to clear them. This room was much brighter than her dorm room. The walls were white and reflected the light from the large windows. The fireplace on the opposite wall made it much warmer than the dorm rooms.   
Miss Barstock was leaning over her, a frown pinching her eyebrows together.   
“Are you quite in your wits again, Miss Harrison? Do you require laudanum or a cold plunge?”  
“No, ma’am. I simply became overcome. I do not require anything,” Elizabeth said, trying to sit up.   
“You are not ill? If you are I must know before I allow you around the other students. Are the studies too strenuous for you?”  
“No, no, ma’am, I assure you, I am perfectly well.”  
“You cannot be perfectly well. You were found, in your underthings, on the floor of your closet. Have you an explanation?”   
“I cannot account for my sudden faint, but I do assure you that I have no serious complaint. Perhaps the excitement of Mss Dickinson’s sudden departure?” Elizabeth hazarded, desperate to divert the woman. Brain fever would leave confined to bed until the doctors felt the danger had passed. She would go mad if she could not practice glamour for so long. Even worse, she might be sent home altogether.   
Elizabeth tried to sit up. Her head swam again and she collapsed back onto the bed. She had rarely allowed herself to become so caught up in glamour that she fainted. She had, of course, become lightheaded on more than one occasion. Once, when practicing with her uncle she had even swooned a bit. But to allow herself to faint dead away, where someone might guess what she had been doing? How could she have been so blind to the possible consequences?  
“We have, of course, sent a letter to your father alerting him to your collapse.”  
“My father?” Elizabeth faltered.   
“Naturally. We take very seriously the trust placed in us. We would never hide a student’s illness from her father. Now, you are to remain in bed today until we are certain your fit has passed and will not recur while we await instructions from your father.”  
Elizabeth turned her head to the side, suppressing tears. Her father might not immediately guess what she had been doing, but Elizabeth knew her mother was sure to realize that it had something to do with glamour. Uncle Alexander had worked himself into a faint more than once trying to master a particular knot. It was too much to hope that his sister would not recognize the signs of the same strain in her own daughter.

The letter arrived two days later. It was, as Elizabeth had expected, full of recriminations from her mother. She did not see the letter from her father to the school, but it must have instructed them to allow her to return to class if they felt there was no danger, for she was able to read the private letters in the solitude of her own room.

Daughter,  
It is beyond my comprehension how a mother could be expected to endure a daughter who, with wilful disobedience goes against the strictures of God, her parents, and her school. To risk her health, her life, and her immortal soul in the pursuit of that activity she knows to be a sin against the Almighty can only be seen as direct defiance. That her vanity and pride could be so overreaching that she could discount the shame to herself and her family were her sin discovered is more than is reasonable for a mother to suffer. I can only hope that she is properly grateful for the mercy shown by God in not punishing her further than a faint.   
With overburdened heart,  
Your Mother

Her father had written on another sheet, enclosed within the first. His letter was brief and direct, like the man himself.  
Elizabeth,  
I have determined that this shall be your last term at Mount Holyoke. The Seminary is a fine place, but it is past time you were married. There are several good, solid young men of my acquaintance who would have use of a wife with some accomplishments. We will begin to introduce you when you come home.   
Your affectionate Father

 

Her chest was tight. Marriage. She knew it was coming, but she had not thought that her father would insist on finding her a husband so soon. And to pull her out of school a year early... Her mother must have been more upset than even her letter showed. She supposed a letter was also on the way to Uncle Alexander instructing him to stop encouraging her unchristian interest in his wicked pastime.   
She crumpled the two sheets into a ball and crammed them down into her pocket. She would burn them later, but right now she just wanted a way to purge the sick feeling coiled in her middle. Without thinking, she stepped into her closet and started to pull folds of glamour to her.   
Elizabeth stretched a swath of dark grey green across the top of the tiny room. Then she tied another skein into racing black clouds that circled the ceiling. More folds became waves crashing back and forth against each other and the walls of the closet. They raged as if trying to rip down the wood that kept them from spilling out into the dormitory and the campus beyond.   
Elizabeth was breathing fast, but perfectly well by the time the broad strokes were put in. She thought about trying to build a ship for the waves to toss back and forth, but decided to leave the storm as it was, self contained and impotent. She dropped her hands to her side and watched the storm she had built, chest still tight.

 

Elizabeth had not elected to participate in the April musicale. She had not heart to sing or play the harp of late. Her accomplishments were of little concern to her at the present moment. She had but two months left of the term and then her father would retrieve her. There was so much still to learn and to see before she was shut up in some respectable man’s house. No husband her father recommended would allow her to practice glamour. She would fade, Elizabeth thought, like a fold of glamour left too long unattended. Her colors would mute and her edges would fray until she became nothing more than a faint memory of the girl she was now.   
Three letters had arrived from her Mother detailing the young men who had her father’s favor thus far. Mr. Jackson Saunders of Maryland. Mr Saunders was the heir to a sizeable property back home, but was studying medicine at the Massachusetts Medical College of Harvard. Mr. Samuel Coleman was somewhat older, already 30 and a clergyman. His first wife had died of a childbed fever and he seemed to think a seminary girl would make a good minister’s wife. Finally, there was Mr. William Wickham who stood to inherit a tidy property from an uncle somewhere in the south. Mrs. Harrison was uncertain as to the details, but knew that it was in cotton and of substantial size. Elizabeth had shuddered at the thought of living on a southern cotton plantation after the horrors described to her by Mary Bently. None of the three sober and upright men appealed to her in the least.   
She paced around the edges of the recital hall, too unsettled to sit or even converse with any of the other girls or the visiting Andover students with whom she was acquainted. She could plead a headache, go back to her room and get some more time in her retreat. She was heading to the door when she almost collided with a figure in a black suit.   
“Please, pardon me,” she said, dropping a curtsy, blushing with shame. “I was not attending...”  
“The blame is entirely mine,” Mr. Markham said. “I was hoping to speak to you and was not mindful of my path.”   
Elizabeth’s eyes flew up to his face. She had not thought to see him here after their last encounter when she had so rudely made up an excuse to leave him in the recital hall.   
“Mr. Markham. This is a surprise.”  
“Not, I trust, too unpleasant of one,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners.  
“Oh, no. I just had not thought you were coming this evening,” she said, hands playing with her fan.  
“Would you take a turn with me?” he asked, holding out his arm. She placed her palm on his forearm and they progressed out into the receiving room as Kitty McAllister began to sing.   
“You are looking well.”  
“Thank you,” she replied, knowing he was being kind. In truth she was hollow cheeked and her eyes looked bruised. The infirmarion was beginning to think that she did have a brain fever after all.   
“You are not performing tonight?” he asked as they paced past other couples and groups.   
“No, I am not in voice at the moment,” she said. She felt the stiffness of her shoulders was echoed in the stilted conversation.   
“I am sorry to hear that. I had looked for the pleasure of hearing you again before I departed.”  
“Oh, you have your posting?” she asked, feeling a hollowness in the region of her stomach.   
“I do. I will be ministering to the people in __, India,” he said with pride.  
“It is just as you hoped then,” Elizabeth said with forced cheer. “When do you sail?”  
“I hope in late June or early July. There are various arrangements still to make. I had hoped... That is... I mean to say...” he broke off, flushing.   
Looking around he tugged her over to the wall, beside a plant stand holding a large potted fern. Elizabeth’s eyebrows went up, wondering at his sudden energy. He stood, staring intently at her face.   
“Miss Harrison, I hope you know that I have a regard for you that is very strong.” He paused, giving her the opportunity to respond. She barely knew what she could say.  
“I had thought you surprisingly warm toward me, given our brief acquaintance, but I was at a loss to explain it,” she said.  
“It is here that I must admit to you some slight deception. I knew of you before I had the admirable Miss Stein make our introductions.” Elizabeth drew back a pace, eyes darting to the side to see if anyone was nearby.  
“Your friend Miss Bently is my cousin. We have been close from childhood and she often wrote to me about her lively friend, Miss Harrison. She contrived this scheme where we would meet without her connection being known that she might more closely gauge your thoughts. She gave me some reason to hope... That is... MIght you, also, have some regard for me?” He gazed down at her, eyes hopeful, on hand outstretched.   
“This is, you must realize, a shock. To hear that my friend conspired behind my back to throw us together. With all that, however, I am not... wholly indifferent to you,” she allowed.   
He smiled, but did not lower his hand. She gazed at it uncomprehendingly, then moved her eyes up to his face.  
“If that is so, would you consider doing me the honor of becoming my wife?” he asked her. Elizabeth thought for a long moment. All the while, Mr. Markham held his hand out.   
“Before I answer you, I must ask how much Mary told you about me,” she said, heart pounding in her breast as though she had just spread glamour around the room.   
“You mean about your... pastime?” he ventured.  
“Indeed,” she said, twisting her hands together and utterly crushing her gloves.  
“We discussed it,” he admitted.   
“And your conclusion was?” she asked, feeling her breathing become more shallow.  
“I think the Almighty gives us talents for a reason. I cannot think that he would give us all this ability and truly not mean for us to use it.” Elizabeth drew in a deep breath, just in time to stave off the darkness that was touching the edges of her vision.   
“But we are told that it is a sin,” she said, wondering how radical his views really were.  
“I have not seen any indication that glamour is any more or any less a vanity than having a nice home, or well cut clothes. I know that I go against the popular thought here, but we are taught that the peoples we visit will most likely be profligate with their glamour, but that it can be an important tool in learning how best to approach them. Glamour is not, for us, as big a stumbling block as many other things we must address in our missions.”  
“Do you truly not mind that I practice glamour?” she asked him, unable to fully comprehend what he had just said.  
“I truly do not mind,” he assured her, stretching his hand another inch or so toward her.   
Feeling faint, but determined she placed her own hand in his. “Then yes, I would be honored to be your wife.”   
Mr. Markham’s smile, Howard’s, she corrected herself, lit up his face and made it suddenly beautiful. “Then, with your permission, I will set off to Boston to speak with your father.”  
“My father!” Elizabeth gasped. “But you’ve never even been introduced. Whatever will he say?”  
“I have a letter of introduction from the president of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, I understand they are acquainted. I hope that will be enough for him to forgive me for securing the affections of his daughter.”  
Elizabeth blushed. “That might do. He and Mr. Anderson have corresponded. I shall write him as well, although you may arrive before the letter.”  
“If you trust me with it, I would be happy to take it to him myself,” Mr. Markham offered.  
“Thank you. Shall we rejoin the concert?” Elizabeth asked, uncertain how to behave now that they were engaged.  
“Perhaps that would be best. You have made me very happy, Miss Harrison.” He held out his arm again and when she put her hand upon it he placed his on on top. 

Epilogue

Dearest Uncle,  
Howard and I have begun our journey to his mission in India. As a special treat, he has arranged that we shall spend a whole month in London before we continue on to Bombay. We are to go to several small dinners with people Howard has introductions to. We are also to attend a meeting of the London Missionary Society. They have many areas of common interest in Africa as Howard’s own American Board. He has dispatches from them to the London Society. It is my sincere hope that with all these social engagements I shall have the opportunity to see some glamurals.   
I do own that the glamurals at the Philidelphia Philosophical Society are very fine, and I thank you again for arranging that I might view them. I do think it was very wicked of you to have me give a demonstration of glamour in front of Mr. Gowen. You know I cannot raise my arms in these gowns to make the proper gestures for a large work. Although he was very kind about my small effort. Perhaps the rules will have been relaxed by the time I return to the States and I might apply to become a full member.   
I have decided to do something very bold. I am going to write to Lady Vincent. Mr. Gowen was good enough to write me a brief introduction; no, I did not tell you of it, for I was not certain that you would approve. He and Lady Vincent have been sometimes correspondents since the publication of her first book, that volume you so graciously presented me with. I have determined to write to her upon our arrival in London and to request any advice she might be willing to give me on conducting my own study of glamourist techniques native to the regions we are bound to inhabit.   
You will think me a shocking and bold girl, but I trust that the Lady who co-authored a work such as A Comparative Study of the Glamour Taught in Europe and Africa, With a Particular Concentration of the Ebo and Assanti Peoples will not be too put out by my making bold to write to her.   
I shall, of course, write to you often and keep you informed as to our situation. You must reassure Mama and Papa that all is well even if they do not hear from me for a shockingly long time. I do not believe I managed to convey to Mama exactly how long the mails will take between Boston and Bombay. And I do not even know how long it will take to get to our new home. It is some two hundred miles from the mission if I am reading Howard’s map correctly.   
Oh, but what an adventure this will be. I have written to Mary in Nigeria. Her letters are very cheerful. She writes faithfully once a week and gives me what tiny bits of information about glamour that she finds. The girls there do not fully trust her yet, but I know they will come around. She is such a dear person. I only hope that I can be half as useful as she is at my own mission. The world is such a wide place. I can scarcely believe that I am out and about in it now.  
Your loving niece, Elizabeth Markham


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